


Two Birds

by dumblittlefox



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, dont be sad bc im coming out w a fix-it fic soon so..., eds is dead ): sorry, it was mutual love tho, okay so uhhh bev and richie are just platonic obvs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 10:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20674010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumblittlefox/pseuds/dumblittlefox
Summary: "two birds on a wireone tries to fly awayand the other watches him close from that wirehe says he wants to as wellbut he is a liar" - two birds by regina spektorEddie is dead and Richie is coping-or at least trying to.





	Two Birds

Eddie was dead.

Three words that Richie was having an awfully hard time admitting. It wasn’t like he didn’t know—like he didn’t hold his dying body in his arms like a life source, sobbing into his hair and gripping onto him so tight like he might **DIE** if he didn’t—but it wasn’t making it easier. It wasn’t making _this_ easier. After swimming in the quarry and trudging through Derry back to the townhouse, they had all mourned in their own ways before trying to help Richie move on.

Bev and Richie shared a cigarette and some alcohol—and Richie found himself in silent shock, feeling smoke enter his lungs, a quick reminder of how much he fucking _hated_ smoking or the liquid honey burn of whiskey down his throat. Ben had tried to talk it out with Richie, tried to get him to spit out the words eventually, before he had to leave to go back home—and Richie had bitterly thought that if he didn’t love Ben so much, and knew that Ben loved him too, maybe he had just **_pitied_** him. Bill had simply given him a long, warm hug, and his presence as they watched a movie in his room with Mike, who was mostly silent but pouring out with empathy. Richie hadn’t been able to focus—just zoned out and felt his eyes focus and unfocus on the warm blue glow of the television screen in an otherwise pitch-black room.

But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was. Eventually, everyone had come to the conclusion that they’d stay in touch this time, but had to head back home. Ben had reassured Bev of a home with him—their quickly budding romance would have been sweet to Richie had he not been mourning _his_ first love. Ben headed back home first, followed by Bill, then Bev—and Richie had gone with her. It was her insistence—that he couldn’t be alone, go back to the too-small white walls of his apartment, feel them closing in on him like an impending panic attack. Like the fear, guilt, and pain that was pounding through him with every aching second.

So, he was with Bev and Ben. Crashing on their couch, more specifically. It was currently nearing 2 a.m. and he was still slightly damp from his shower an hour earlier. He was buried beneath a blanket with the dull mumble of the TV, the room shrouded in darkness. He was afraid to sleep—almost deathly so. Exhaustion kept pulling his eyes closed, but every time he fell asleep, he dreamt of _him._

Of the way blood had squirted out of his body and onto Richie beneath him the moment he was impaled—the way blood trickled from his mouth, lips curved in a frown of realization, eyebrows furrowed. The way he could barely speak his name as he processed what had happened. The way his body was so, so cold, eyes lifeless. The thoughts that were practically _**tormenting**_ him—the way It would taunt him, call him names that were shouted from people like Bowers—or the thought that Eddie had to die alone and that was so, _**so**_ not fair, or maybe the thought that he never got to tell him he really loved him the way he did. The way now everyone-fucking-else go to know. Everyone except Eddie and Stan.

He closed his eyes. Tried to think about anything but Eddie. Anything but his sullen eyes, cold skin, and slightly gaped lips. He ultimately failed and turned on his side as he heard footsteps approach, eyes fluttering open slowly. He saw Bev standing there in her pajamas—a light pink t-shirt and plaid blue and white sweatpants—looking down at him with concern. She was pouting slightly, eyebrows drawn in worry. She leaned down and drew her fingers through his hair, and he looked at her with nothing to say. They’d said all they could.

“Are you okay?” She whispered, lines setting on her forehead.

“Fuckin’…peaches n’ cream,” was all he could manage, a forced, tight smile pressed to his lips.

She sighed and pressed a small kiss to his forehead. He couldn’t help but think that she’d make a great mother—as much as a kiss to the forehead wasn’t exactly curing his depression. _Go figure, I guess._ He curled further in on himself as she joined him on the couch. She pulled his legs into her lap and squeezed in next to him. She played with the hem of his sweatpants, drawing circles with manicured red nails into the deep blue fabric. She watched the TV with just as much disinterest as Richie, and he found himself finding comfort in the warmth of her body pressed into his. The one thing he appreciated about Bev was how much she cared—and how much she always wanted to prove it.

He may have never told any of the Losers about his sexuality <strike>or dared to admit his love for Eddie</strike>, but he was pretty sure she could pick up on context clues. The jokes or flirtation that seemed just a bit _too_ serious. He never had to outright say the words ‘I’m gay, and I hope you’re okay with that’ for her to get the gist. It still remained unspoken, but after seeing his breakdown about Eddie, it couldn’t have been more obvious to any of them.

“Richie,” she eventually said.

He couldn’t do anything besides look at her with mild curiosity, a bit blurred at that, considering his lack of glasses at the moment.

“Can I tell you something?” She whispered.

He frowned. His heart began to beat a bit heavier, dread sinking into his body. _Great. Another serious conversation._ Serious still wasn’t exactly his forte—no matter what happened to Eddie. He had a hard time talking about his emotions, clearly. Why else would he let internalized homophobia and pure **_fear_** rid him of a possible life with his first love? The fear of rejection, of letting his guard down and being attacked, was something he was still riddled with. It was probably something that was going to die with him unless he found a way to combat it. He swallowed and forced his eyes to flicker back to the TV, nodding very, ever so slightly in Bev’s direction.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “uh, go ahead, I guess.”

She was quiet for a moment as if she almost didn’t want to say what she knew she had to. His heart was now just about pounding, and sweat beaded at his forehead despite the chill of the apartment. He felt terror sink into his bones, and could only imagine the kind of horrible things she could say—not that she _would_. Beverly was never like that. She was just as kind and overflowing with passion and warmth as Ben was. It didn’t denounce the fact that she still could kick ass when she needed to be. Her soft spot was with the Losers—and it likely always would be. Richie could relate.

“He loved you too, you know,” she finally said.

He felt his heart stop. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He forced himself to _breathe_ because she couldn’t possibly mean what he thought she was implying here. A nervously stuttered laugh left his lips, humorless. She didn’t laugh in return, and slowly pulled her gaze back to him, where she looked—sad.

“I—what?” Was all he could say.

It felt a bit cruel—to almost lead him on like that, if that’s _not_ what she meant, which, how could it _possibly_ be? He had come to terms a long time ago with the fact that Eddie almost certainly did not feel the same way. He had deemed himself unlovable in that way—as much as it hurt to admit to himself.

“You know, Rich. Don’t try and deny it.”

She looked so damn _sad_, and Richie’s vision was still a bit blurry, so he couldn’t quite tell if her light eyes were beginning to cloud with tears or not. His breath was becoming a bit rapid, and if his legs weren’t planted on her lap, maybe he’d be a bit more jittery right now—pulling himself in an upright position, shrugging on his jacket, and darting out the door. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t run from this conversation or the way it made him feel, the way he felt elated and so simultaneously upset because Eddie’s death was all for naught, and he could have had everything he’d ever wanted if it weren’t for that _stupid fucking clown._

If she was right—if she somehow knew—then Eddie was dead and it was so fucking _wrong_. Frustration, anger, guilt, and sadness, all bubbled in his gut, rising in his throat like bile. Instead, tears just brimmed at dark eyes. He raised his hands to draw over his face, ignoring the tears that began to spill. There was no blocking his emotions with humor—she knew his wall all too well and just how to break it down. She knew how to get under his skin like none of the other Losers, as much as he hated to admit it. Even Eddie.

“How—how do you _know_? Did he _**tell**_ you? And not me?”

His throat felt scratchy, but he couldn’t seem to clear it.

“Kind of,” she admitted, and went back to drawing patterns into his sweats. “He almost didn’t have to. One day I just…caught the way he was looking at you, and I eventually confronted him about it.” She frowned. “I told him I wouldn’t out him to anyone. I don’t think he ever really came to terms with his sexuality, but he told me he loved you. In the way that he does—that he did. That special way only he can do.”

He couldn’t help the sob that escaped his throat, or the way he pulled himself up in an upright position, only to swing his arms around her neck and bury his face into her shoulder. She closed her eyes and pulled him close, half-way into her lap. He began to properly cry at that point, and although snot dripped from his nose, and he felt oddly embarrassed at being 40 years old and sobbing into his childhood friend’s t-shirt at 2 a.m. over something uncontrollable, he still didn’t pull away. He didn’t run away, and she didn’t seem to care.

She rubbed at his back soothingly and let him cry, and Richie thought at that moment about his vulnerability with her as a kid. She’d always been kind and never poked questions where he was clearly too sensitive to answer. He had a long-lived habit of self-hatred and internalized homophobia that was burned into his skin the moment he was born in Derry. The number of times he’d crumbled his composure in front of her—not only regarding Eddie’s death—but also at times where things just got to be a bit too _much_ and humor couldn’t help be his wall, was almost countless. She’d been the friend he could ask serious, intimate questions to without judgment. Questions about crushes and boys liking other boys, or girls liking other girls. Things he couldn’t confide with the other Losers without fear of judgment.

He breathed a sigh of relief as she continued to hold him in her lap until his crying was soothed and he was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion. He was sniffing with red-rimmed eyes by the time he pulled back. She sat up and let him curl up beneath the black, fuzzy blanket. From what he could see when she leaned back down to him, she had been crying, too. His lips were still curved in a frown, and he didn’t feel any lighter, but now that he’d gotten it out of his system, maybe he’d sleep better.

“He loved you, Rich. A lot. Sometimes it seemed like it scared him,” she paused, gathering her thoughts, “and sometimes it seemed like all he cared about was loving you. You and your stupid nickname for him and all your bickering.” She smiled, soft and weak. “Don’t forget that he loved you. That we all do. We’ll never abandon you—we won’t forget again.”

He nodded and sighed, feeling the last of his tears dripping from dark brown eyes and drying against his scruff. She pressed another kiss to his head.

“Love you, Rich. Goodnight.”

“You too, Bev.”

The last thing he heard besides the quiet roar of the TV was her footsteps padding away into her and Ben’s room, and he was left to think about two things—her words and Eddie. For once, the thoughts weren’t residing about his death. It was more about the way his heart didn’t stop thumping hard against his chest every time he saw him, even 20-some-years later. He thought about both times he’d had to say goodbye. The first being when they were both still young and Eddie was moving away for college and Richie had sobbed into his hair as he held him close. They were both a bit taller, a bit less awkward, but still just as close. Eddie had cried that day, and when Richie had made fun of him for it, despite him crying too, he had pulled away with a choked, “fuck you, asshole,” and they had laughed about it before saying their final goodbyes. The second was the most painful—the last remaining memory of the chill of his skin, the blank, empty gaze, and blood staining his shirt and Richie’s glasses. Holding onto him, tight as he could, as they pried him away—Neibolt crumbling to ashes as he sobbed at his loss.

He forced that thought away and made himself think of happier things. Happier times with Eddie. His eighteenth birthday, the way his lips had cracked into a wide grin when he saw what Richie had gotten him—a set of his favorite comic books that he couldn’t afford. The nights spent at sleepovers with the Losers where he’d be pressed warmly against Eddie’s side, where sometimes he’d wake up with his arm hung over Eddie’s waist, and the way Eddie hadn’t moved from the touch. Truth or dare—truth or _fucking_ dare, where he had kissed him, just _once_. Bev had dared him to kiss Eddie, and Eddie’s face immediately went red, and he stuttered for the right words to say. All that came out instead was a mixture of, ‘what—no, I mean, w-why would he, I mean—’ and was only cut off by Richie pressing his lips firmly to Eddie’s for a solid 30 seconds. When he had pulled back, Eddie just stared blankly, and silence hung heavy in the air. Richie had immediately thought he’d done something wrong until Beverly began to giggle and Richie felt himself flush in slight embarrassment. All she could claim is, ‘well, I didn’t think you’d do it.’

He let that thought draw him to sleep—the first and last time he ever got to kiss him. His soft, warm lips—the soft touch of his hand pressed into Eddie’s as he leaned forward. He felt himself smile, ever so slightly, tears building beneath dark eyelashes. And with that, he slept.

He dreamt of Eddie.

It was the best dream he’d had in a while.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, hope u enjoyed !! find me over at @toziertrashed on twitter or @angelcoree on tumblr !! stick around for more reddie fics in the near future, including fix-its, polylosers, and multi-chaptered au's !!


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